


The Seduction of Alan Campbell

by dappercat



Category: Dorian Gray - All Media Types, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alan being ridiculously naive, Denial, Dorian being overly intimate, Dorian having no sense of personal space, Extremely long build-up, Lord Henry being his usual dickish self, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Slight inaccuracies to canon, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappercat/pseuds/dappercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gray took a shuddering breath, closing his eyes momentarily. His delicate hands fiddled with each other in the dim light. “I am an invert.”</p><p>Alan stilled. “You are?” Something in his mind was struggling to understand Gray’s words. “I mean, are you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scorning Miss Lambton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story that's meant to cover the duration of Dorian Gray and Alan Campbell's friendship/relationship, from when they first met to when Alan is finally tasked by Dorian to get rid of Basil's body. 
> 
> I wrote this several years ago, and recently rediscovered it so I thought I'd post it on AO3. Sadly, I never finished it. I'm thinking of continuing it, but until then, enjoy my outdated work!

Alan was getting rather tired. The evening had passed in fitful spurts: long lapses of tedium broken up by conversation with various Important Persons, all of whom he had attempted to impress with his limited charm, not entirely succeeding. The desire for an increase in clients and, indeed, reputation as a chemist, was all that had kept him going. Now it was eleven o’clock and if he did not leave Lady Berkshire's party now he was going to be dreadfully tired in the morning and no use at all to the men and women who already used his services, let alone potential clientele with overflowing bank accounts.

He was just taking the small dark side route along the edge of the house in order to avoid the people inside it when someone suddenly appeared from behind one of the carefully-kept rosebushes and stumbled into him. Alan caught sight of blond curls and dazzling youth and then whoever it was had fairly knocked him to the ground, where, with a noise of indignance, he immediately pushed himself to his feet once more and regarded the offending stumbler with irritance. The stumbler - who was finding it a slower process to get off the ground, no doubt due to the effect of Lord Berkshire’s excellent wine - gladly took Alan’s hand when it was begrudgingly offered, and as Alan pulled them up he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Dorian Gray.

“Oh.” He looked carefully at the grinning, slightly rosy-cheeked youth before him. He opened his mouth to say more, but something was tapping at his cheek to silence him- Gray’s hands, which migrated down to his cravat and pulled him down behind a different, but identical, rosebush.

“What are you doing, Gray?” he asked, or rather tried to ask, as Gray was clamping a delicate hand over his mouth and shushing him. Alan was thoroughly annoyed.

“Hush!” said Gray, with some strange boyish brightness in his eyes. He was like some child playing a game of hide-and-seek with another, he really was. Alan really could not believe Gray to be more than 20, though the man famous for his youthful appearance claimed to be upwards of 25. “I have just about eluded the grasp of Miss Lambton,” Gray was explaining to him, in soft excited tones, “I believe she wishes to draw me into some dull discussion of marriage; women always wish to be married when they attend house-parties. It must be the terrible atmosphere.” He giggled slightly. “But you know, I hate marriage; I think talk of it is absolutely hateful. Why must all women talk of marriage? Besides, her name is absolutely ridiculous. Too ridiculous for I to even consider as a wife!”

Alan was bemused. He allowed Gray to keep him at a crouch; he did not even disentangle Gray’s hand from his cravat, so stunned was he by this sudden - and rather bizarre - initiation of conversation. He had never spoken to Gray, beyond formal introductions earlier that evening, and indeed knew nothing about the man outside of what was common knowledge - such as his being a handsome but air-headed dandy who was said to have a ‘dark and mysterious’ side underneath the angelic charm, though Alan suspected that was largely a rumour cultivated by the same sort of women who belonged to Gray’s type of people, those who felt a thrill at the thought of any man sharing a darker past. It was really too preposterous to even consider.

Still - what was going on here? Gray had never showcased any former interest in speaking with him, indeed Alan was of such lowly position - only invited because he had recently struck up a sort of mutual respect of intellect with one of Lady Berkshire’s relatives - that he would have hardly dared to believe Gray would have deigned to speak with him. Not that it concerned Alan, for he had no interest in the man, but it was still altogether singularly queer.

“It seems,” he said, cautiously, so not as to ruin the tense atmosphere clearly enjoyed by the blond boy before him, “that that is a poor reason to reject a wife when she is bound to change her name in any event, upon becoming married.”

“ _Hush_!” exclaimed Gray in a whisper, and Alan hushed. They fell into silence, and as Gray seemed perfectly fixated on forbidding himself from moving or making a sound, Alan too followed this lead, reasoning that were he to mortally offend the well-liked cherub before him he would never hear the end of it from his rich acquaintances. However, it was distinctly uncomfortable to remain crouched in such a position, maintaining a perfectly unmoving position and breathing only very shallowly, so as to avoid any danger of exhaling too loudly. Alan was just thinking how amusingly disastrous it would be for either of them to suddenly find himself seized by the uncontrollable urge to cough, when the sound of footsteps silenced his thoughts rather suddenly and returned him to the rather more pressing occupation of not making even a whisper.  

It was difficult to discern whom it was that was advancing towards their hiding-spot, especially when Gray had not deigned to let go of his cravat and was still holding onto it in a way that not only added to the difficulties of not falling over but also ensured that his face was turned towards Gray’s own excited one, a sight that interested him far less than that of the young woman Gray was striving to escape. Yet, if he turned his head as far as it might go without meeting the resistance provided by the fabric around his neck- and here he tugged his head backwards, and with some delight succeeded in wrenching free the crumpled cravat from Gray’s tight grip. Now freed of such an obstruction, he turned his attention to the woman who was now, he noted, rather close to their hiding place; indeed, she was almost directly on the other side of the rosebush.

The preceding few minutes lasted an indefinite eternity. Gray had somehow, in his tension, seized upon Alan’s arm and was holding onto it rather tightly. The woman - Miss Lambton - Alan recognised from earlier on in the evening, a rather good-looking but loud girl who was prone to fits of barking laughter. At present, she seemed rather flustered; evidently, she had not been in agreement with Gray’s decision to escape her grasp. Alan felt a spot of chivalrous sympathy for the girl, though not to an extent sufficient to prompt him to stand up and reveal their hiding-place so that she might get her vengeance on her chosen partner for the evening. Indeed, Alan was rather glad when she went away again, as it permitted him to finally come out of his discomforting crouch and give Gray the look he deserved: one of a disturbed demand for answers.

“You’ve a leaf on your coat, Mr. Campbell,” was the first thing Gray said to him, laughing, before brushing the offending article off with a delicate movement of his hand.

“Thank you,” Alan replied, in a tone that was almost uncivil. Gray delivered a look in return that suggested he was perfectly aware of how Alan felt.

“You mustn’t be angry at me, Campbell!” he declared, and there was a look of surprise on his face that expressed itself in the rise of his finely-groomed eyebrows. “You must understand how difficult it is these days to detach oneself from an undesirable woman. It is not enough simply to state your true feelings! Women are always incapable of understanding such honesty. No, the only thing that suffices now is to tell outrageous fibs and excuse one’s self through means of invented sicknesses, social obligations and such.” He smiled charmingly at Alan, then added, gaily, “I must thank you, however, for helping me so willingly.”

“Helping-” Alan began, astonished.

“Had the girl succeeded in her pursuit, I would have undoubtedly devised some fabricated tale of how you and I had been occupied in the discussion of certain- What is it you do?”

“I am a chemist,” Alan said, and could not resist bristling somewhat at the sudden intrusive question, though he had answered it nonetheless.

“Certain chemicals, then,” Gray concluded, with a dismissive motion of the hand. “It would have surely put her off the scent.” He looked brightly into Alan’s face, a look that the latter found ill-suiting to the situation - Alan felt thoroughly dishevelled, with (he imagined) dirt stains upon his clothing, and now felt sure that he was to be yawning throughout his work hours to-morrow. Gray however, it seemed, had a remarkable ability to ignore every negative social cue Alan was exhibiting, and continued, with a disproportionate level of familiarity in his voice: “Now I recall it- I was on the verge of returning home when she accosted me. Why, Campbell, you must accompany me back home for a spot of brandy! It would be only fitting, and you must know, I’ve succeeded in obtaining some excellent French Marc. It would be a sorry sight to see my sampling such a delight on my own.”

Alan gazed levelly at the vivacious blond youth and decided he could not think of anyone he would less desire to spend an hour with. His next words were curt: “No. Thank you, Gray, I’d rather not.”

Gray did not, as Alan had somehow expected, wilt at these words. Instead, this rejection seemed to merely glance off him; he looked, if it was possible, brighter in the face at these words. Though surprised, Alan maintained his hostility with a determination, and did not react even when Gray placed a hand on his shoulder and declared, with a certain dramatic air about his voice, “It really is a shame, Campbell. No matter!- I suspect we shall meet each other again soon enough. Perhaps I will have need for a chemist.”

Alan only responded to this with a thin-lipped grimace; Gray, taking his hand away, seemed not to notice. Though Alan had fully intended to be the first to disengage from their queer little interaction, and indeed had thought of little else for the past ten minutes, it was Gray who sauntered off before him, in the direction of the gates to the house grounds. A small wave and cheerful “Good-bye, Alan, good-bye!”, and the boy had completely vanished, leaving Alan to stand in the fallen leaves with a sense of having been somehow made a fool of.

It was an entirely frustrating sensation, and one that he could not pin on any certain cause, for he did not recall any moment in their conversation where Gray had seemed to be openly mocking him. The feeling nagged at him, amplifying the disgruntled mood that was already present from a combination of bafflement and exhaustion. Finally, he shook it off, determining never to think of the incident again, and stalked off along the same path Gray had taken. Strangely, the youth was nowhere to be seen, and Alan found his way home without difficulty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that the way Alan and Dorian meet doesn't actually fit in with canon, a fact I only noticed after I'd done the entire first chapter. IIRC, the canon briefly refers to them meeting at a Rubenstein concert. I tried to steer it back into canon territory by setting a significant scene in the story at a Rubenstein concert, but the reality is that I got things wrong. Please forgive me for the inaccuracy.
> 
> Also, for some reason, I originally misunderstood Alan's profession as being an actual chemist, as in running a chemist's shop. Again, please forgive for the inaccuracy.
> 
> Let's just say this story is an AU in which Alan and Dorian meet at a party, and Alan runs a chemist shop. :P


	2. Intrusion at Work

A week passed, and Alan did not care to think of what had occurred between he and Gray, so absorbed was he in the sudden influx of clients. It was evident that his ambitions at the party had succeeded; he found himself with barely enough time to eat and sleep, let alone contemplate things that did not directly relate to his work, though he was enjoying a new reputation as an “educated, proper chemist whom one can trust with his private matters”. It was, however, on the Friday of the following week that the incident thrust itself back into his life without warning, in a manner that was _entirely_ unwelcome.

It was late afternoon, with approximately a half hour until closing time. In the adjoining space he reserved for record-keeping and the more complex requests he received from clients, Alan was passing a tranquil few minutes sorting through finances. He was seated at his desk, perusing some papers, when a knock at the door sounded the arrival of a customer who had evidently found the druggist’s main room empty and wished to be served. “Enter,” he called, loudly, allowing his eyes to finish the sentence they were in the midst of reading, before glancing up as the client closed the door behind them.

“ _You_!” he exclaimed, outraged, immediately standing and sending pages to the floor. It was Dorian Gray, dressed elegantly in top hat and black overcoat, consulting an expensive pocket-watch with the most disdaining look upon his delicate features.

“Oh, good, you’ve not shut yet.” Slipping the watch into a waistcoat pocket, Gray glanced up and flashed a frosty smile, before stepping gracefully over to the nearest free chair and sinking into it with an air of casual dominance. Alan stood where he was. He was not, truthfully, altogether sure of what to do. Inwardly he could feel all sorts of feelings of anger and annoyance fighting to gain control over his very great desire to maintain a certain professionalism, but being unaware of Gray’s motives for visiting him he could not justify acting upon them. This paralysed him; with his eyes resolutely fixed upon Gray’s person he remained there, every contour in his body taut with tension.

Gray stifled a yawn, and, removing his top hat, waved a hand vaguely in Alan’s direction. “Come along, man, sit down, I don’t have all day to spend here. You are a chemist, are you not? Do sit down and take my orders, then.”

Slowly, with a mild uncertainty he tried valiantly to hide, Alan sat down again. Gray bemused him. Completely bemused him. It was as if they had never met, had never crouched together in the leaves next to Lady Berkshire’s residency hiding from a girl who was lusting for more than simply Gray’s blood. Now Gray was distant, almost cold towards him, yet his amiability on the night of Berkshire’s party had not been a result of alcohol ingestion; Alan had not smelt it upon Gray’s breath. And so Alan was surprised; was it, perhaps, some strange quirk of the boy’s, some odd technique for avoiding shame - by pretending that the shameful event had not occurred? Yet it seemed - and now Alan recalled strongly the sensation of foolishness he had felt upon the closing of their conversation - that it was he who had reason to be ashamed, not Gray.

He was still marvelling over this when Gray snapped out a rather impatient command and startled him out of his unsettled daze: “Come, man! At least find some paper!” Alan did so, quickly, recovering his dignities and assuming again the professional manner of an educated chemist. Fine - if Gray wished to behave that way, Alan saw no reason not to play along. He had no particular desire not to deny the existence of the incident, and prepared himself to treat Gray entirely as a complete stranger.

“I’m glad you’re here, Alan,” Gray began, and Alan dropped his pen with a startled jerk of the hand, “I don’t know to whom else I might have gone. The fellow who usually attends to me is away for the next few days, you see.”

“I must ask you to use my surname when addressing me,” Alan replied rather firmly, keeping his pen from rolling off the desk by capturing it with a hand. “ _Gray_ ,” he added, with pointed emphasis.

Gray gave him a look that suggested Alan was only a matter of very mild curiosity. “May I call you Doctor?”

“I do not have a doctorate.”

“Oh, _don’t_ you? Shame."

“Gray,” began Alan rather seriously, believing that the conversation had now reached the point at which it turned from tolerable small-talk to a show of affronting impoliteness, “If this visit bears no medical purpose behind it, then I must ask-”

“Medical purpose!” Gray let out a trilling laugh, reminiscent of his gaiety on the night of Lady Berkshire’s party, though this one bore a certain hollow ring to it. “Dear Campbell!” -and Alan acknowledged this suitable manner of addressing him with a reduction in the ferocity of his glower- “You simply do not understand!”

“Don’t I?” was Alan’s curt reply, “And to what exactly might you be referring, Gray?”

“Niceties,” cried Gray, pressing a hand to his forehead and closing his eyes as if he were on the very verge of breaking into a passionate declaration of sorrow, “You do not understand what I must suffer to remain reputable! Pretending to be really interested in the fallacious little tales these comely girls press upon me, so expected am I to bed them! Yes, finding myself, for hours on end, tormented by recitals of financial figures - or other insufferable matters of tedium - by some Sir Berkeley, some Lord Worcestershire!”

Alan found himself, all at once, exhausted and perplexed by this sudden dramatic change in the youth before him. He pressed his palms to his eyes, wishing, as he did, that he had never had the misfortune of running into Gray that night - or, as was more accurate, had Gray run into him. “Gray,” he returned, with thin patience, “what agonies you encounter on a regular basis are of little interest to me-”

“Don’t say that! Oh, must you be so cruel!” Gray’s hand dropped from his face, and within a moment had risen and moved towards the unaffected chemist, where he seized upon Alan’s hand and looked stricken. Alan was startled to see tears in the wide hazel eyes.

“Alan,” he breathed, “I recognised you as a man of depth, a kindred spirit in whom I could find an intellectual sympathy, an affinity for something more than this childish foolery!”

Alan found himself deeply flattered, despite the unsettling manner in which tears now shone in Gray’s eyes. However brusque he had been towards the youth, Alan was not a cruel man; he stood and moved around the desk, endeavouring to guide the distressed boy to sit, who only assented to perching on the edge of the mahogany desk itself. He accepted the glass of brandy Alan offered him, and stared mournfully up into the chemist’s face.

“You should return home and rest,” Alan said calmly, resting a hand upon the desk and exhibiting a composure that he hoped would transfer over to the other man, “Now I must ask for you to be frank with me. Did you truly have need of some medical substance?”

Gray nodded, looking, Alan was pleased to see, much more collected. “I did come here for want of something to ease my sleep,” said he, in a hushed voice. When Alan returned with a suitable resource for treating sleeplessness, Gray had straightened himself out, and was placing his hat upon his head when he spotted Alan’s return and broke into a delighted smile.

“Thank you, Alan,” he said happily, taking Alan’s hand and shaking it warmly.

“Campbell,” Alan corrected him, but without much conviction, so assaulted were his eyes by Gray’s disarming smile. In this light, the boy was remarkably handsome; Alan had not particularly noticed in the dark evening of their last meeting, and was surprised now by how the boy’s features seemed to glow with the addition of his charming grin. It really was no surprise that the fairer sex favoured Gray so strongly.

Gray released Alan’s hand, pressing money into Alan’s palm as he did so and taking his purchases. “I am really so terribly grateful,” he was gushing, “You don’t know how it is for a man to hold such secret thoughts within him all the time, unable to confess them to anyone!” He stepped away, tucking his purchases away and allowing Alan to lead him out and to the main door that opened out upon the London street, which the chemist graciously pulled open for Gray’s benefit.

“Alan,” said Gray, pausing on the door-step and veering back around to face him with the look of a man who had just remembered something very important.

“Yes, Gray?”

“Are you fond of Rubinstein’s concertos?”

 

 


	3. Flights of Music

It was later that day, mid-evening, when Alan found himself damning his passion for music, especially Rubinstein and all that he stood for.

The hall at which Rubinstein was playing was well known for hosting many famous talents as they passed through the area, but was inconveniently situated on the other side of London from Alan’s modest store and the living quarters he owned above it. It was with some minor resentment that he paid for a hansom to take him there, reassuring himself with the knowledge that the evening’s performance was not to cost a penny for his to enjoy, courtesy of Gray’s bottomless wealth. Perhaps, he considered, the entire affair of Gray’s impromptu friendship was to be seen as a blessing in disguise; even disregarding the financial benefits, Gray had many rich and reputable friends whom would no doubt take to Alan’s business as further clients.

Stepping out in front of the overarching building - with its glossy lighting illuminating a steady trickle of handsome men and women making their way in through the doors - Alan paid the driver and received a stiff nod for his troubles. As the hansom clattered away along the cobbled street he cast his eyes along the crowd that was to be attending Rubinstein’s performance, and felt the first stirrings of ambivalency about Gray’s reliability. There was nothing to say that the boy would even show; indeed, it would be characteristic of such types to forget their appointments and care nothing for the men it left frustrated. Yet, even as he thought it, someone called his name - turning, he was seized upon by a very young and fresh-looking Gray, garbed in velvety evening-cloak with a foolish, breathless grin upon his face.

“Alan!” he enthused, “You did not lose yourself on the journey here, then. I am quite delighted.” Taking Alan by the arm, the youth steered his older companion towards the entrance of the orchestral theatre, elbowing past other smartly-dressed Londoners whom were largely enjoying themselves too much to complain. Though Gray’s dress appeared charmingly groomed - the hands that now gripped Alan’s arm, clad with finely tailored white gloves, gave a graceful finish to the ensemble of deep black cloak and suit - his hair remained in untamed blond curls, a small detail that, nonetheless, reminded Alan strongly of the man’s lesser age. The unblemished pale skin brought out the red of his lips when Gray smiled; _an Adonis indeed_ , Alan thought begrudgingly.

“I have lived in London for near seven years, Gray,” he replied, finally. “I know its geography well enough.”

Gray laughed. “That is not what I meant.” The staff who stood by the door acknowledged Gray with a nod as they passed over the threshold and into the dim-lit reception.

“Then what did you?” he replied, not without irritation. Gray paid sweetly for their entrance, languidly addressing another theatre worker with: “The usual reservation, Hall, thank you; yes, thank you - and how is Mrs. Hall? Quite, quite... No, one can never understand them. We must catch the show now, Hall, yes, it was wonderful speaking with you, good-bye.”

“I spoke, of course,” Gray replied, “of the _other_ manner in which a man may get lost in London,” and the smile on his face was devilishly wicked.

The hall was grand; despite the suffocating manner in which Gray hung off his arm, Alan found himself rather grudgingly impressed by the sterling finish to the arching beams that formed the graceful structural outline of the stage. Upon it, musicians tuned their instruments with delicate hands whilst theatre-goers milled to and fro before them, finding their seats; Rubinstein had not yet made his appearance, although the conductor’s stand stood proud and polished to take his weight.

The honest fact of the matter was that despite how Alan favoured Rubinstein’s composition - and the numerous records tucked into a corner of his modest home - he had never directly witnessed the man at work. This great opportunity was one that no doubt Gray would expect recompense for, and it tinged Alan’s anticipation of Rubinstein’s performance with a queer sort of dread; it was difficult to gauge what sort of favours Gray might ask of him in return. He cursed his own indulgence. He was damned by his inability to resist temptation!

There was nothing to be done for it now. Gray moved with leisurely purpose towards a case of stairs that ran along the height of the hall wall, weaving as he did so in and out of stiff men and their glamorous women, with a familiarity that spoke of his ability to afford the highly priced private boxes overlooking the stage. As they neared the stairs a delighted cry rang out: one that, after a moment’s startled glance, Alan determined had originated from Gray himself. “ _Harry_!”

As a man detached himself from the busy throng of people, Alan succeeded - not without considerable struggle - in removing his arm from the vice-like grip Gray had upon it. Such proximity spoke of an intimacy he did not particularly like to be seen by anyone who circulated in Gray’s social groups, not even to speak of his own. Though the man’s face was unfamiliar to his scrutiny, there was something in the dandy - for, like Gray, one could not help but class this stranger in the same category of glamourised idler - in the dandy’s eyes that suggested Alan’s rapid removal of his blond accessory had not gone unnoticed.

“Dorian, my boy!” came the warm greeting as the fellow neared, “It's so good to see you after all this time. Nearly a week, I shouldn't fancy.” The dandy smiled broadly, clapping a hand upon Gray’s shoulder, whom happily accepted the contact with a dainty grin of his own. “I caught your message at the last minute - you really _must_ cease your relying upon your poor valet to deliver such things on time. You know how these Frenchmen have a queerer grasp on time than we do.” Viridian eyes, bearing no congruence with the jovial smile upon his bearded lips, granted Alan a sweeping look of equal serious scrutiny. “And this is-?”

“My chemist, Alan.” There was something terribly unimpressive about it when Gray phrased it so frankly.

Alan straightened, stiffly extending his hand. “Alan Campbell.”

The dandy shook his hand lightly. “Lord Henry Wotton.” The name rang faint bells; evidently a name of some reputation, or perhaps Gray had mentioned the man to him before, though Alan could not recall it.

“A pleasure,” said Alan, politely. He did not like Wotton’s manner at all, his knack of appearing pleasantly amiable in all but the eyes, which glinted with some-thing uncomfortably like feral pursuit. “You and Mr. Gray are intimate friends, I presume?”

Wotton laughed, loud and cheerful. “You speak as if I am a wholly undesirable individual. I am entirely flattered.” A sly smile spread across his face, and Alan stiffened further as Wotton stepped closer within an instant, resting a strong hand upon his shoulder and lowering his voice conspiratorially. Beard tickling at Alan’s ear, Wotton murmured: “And you make quite the companion for him, dark and taut with your shadowed brow. You will enjoy what he has for you excellently. But never you mind, you are quite enough weighed down with the efforts of keeping yourself comfortably blind.” With these last words he pulled away, smiling like a serpent and patting Alan’s arm with fond affection. “The man is yours, I believe, Dorian.”

“Come, Alan,” Gray said, looking only strangely bright-eyed at witnessing what had just passed. “We mustn’t miss the show.” He took Alan by the arm, and the latter, unsettled by Wotton’s uninvited proximity, permitted himself to be led away in hazy confusion.

They ascended the stairs with alacrity, settling themselves in the box that Gray had reserved in his name. It was stifling, a small space with dark, curving walls that encased them on three sides, creating an air of claustrophobia. Alan hated it. He disliked the physical intimacy, particularly with Wotton, whom despite the great hostility in Alan’s gaze deemed to sit directly beside him, with Gray completing the fence upon his other side.

He was fixed where he was for now, then, for neither Gray nor Wotton seemed likely to let him leave; indeed, Gray had already placed delicate fingers upon his arm, smiling outwards upon the stage. Alan, whose heart thrummed sickly in his chest, was soothed by the sight of Rubenstein himself stepping up at the conductor’s podium; the hall burst into applause, and along with the two men on either side of him, Alan clapped with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

The performance was exquisite. Rubinstein’s conducting was flawless; the orchestra followed his every move with melodious swell, springing into moments of violin solos effortlessly, ascending into high flute trills with perfect timing. The piece itself was, too, marvellous, strong and deep and reverberating, yet though it sung ecstatic in his ears Alan could feel only uneasiness.

What Wotton had said to him refused to leave him; it echoed with a sinister edge that only served to send a shiver beneath his skin - what had Wotton meant, when he had spoke of being blind? He could imagine nothing of threat about Gray’s person; it was Wotton whom intimidated him. And yet the man had done nothing to him - had barely conversed with him, except to speak of Gray in much darker tones than to which Alan was accustomed to hearing.

Was Wotton playing him for a fool? Was there nothing more than sadistic intent in his words? Alan could not determine it; indeed, did not wish to think of it. He had come here to enjoy Rubinstein’s compositions, and it was preposterous to spend the entirety of the performance mulling over some irrelevant, unimportant remark.

Within a second, he had shut his eyes, willing the music to spread over him as a blanket, willing it to blot out Wotton’s presence from his senses. Yet though its harmonies touched him with gentle fingers he felt at a distance to them, as if the thoughts he could not easily dismiss acted as shields against their bliss. The thoughts bucked from under him, eluding his grasp and breaking control, edging his frustration ever higher. As Rubinstein brought the orchestra to an elegant crescendo he stood, knocking Gray with an elbow and attempting to take a rather unbalanced step over the blond’s folded legs.

“What is it, Alan?” whispered Gray, instantly alert. Violins sang in the background.

It was an aggravated mutter that composed his reply: “You’ve kept me here-” -he tripped over Gray’s legs, managing success as he recollected his balance- “-for quite long enough, Gray.” He steadied himself. Gray’s lips formed a small crimson ‘o’ in the darkness, with wide, concerned eyes gazing up out of a pale face. Wotton’s shadowy figure had turned towards them, but with naught but the stage lighting to see by, there was no determining the expression on his face.

Alan jerked himself out of the reach of Gray’s clutching hand, curiosity burning in the youth’s face, and left with bitter haste. The corridor, luxurious velvet with low-burning gas lamps dotted along its length, passed by many other boxes with intent audience members clustered within them, though itself was empty. Though Rubinstein’s piece was muffled by the corridor walls, his mind’s infernal ability to focus itself on Wotton’s words did not weaken with it, indeed even appearing to strengthen as he walked farther from Gray’s box. So it was that he did not notice his pursuer until Gray had seized him by the sleeve and was pulling him backwards.

“Alan!” Gray wore an anxious frown.

Alan shook him off. “I am leaving, Gray, and there’s no law that states I must tell you why.”

“Don’t be horrid, Alan!” Gray’s childlike characteristics came out in full form again; the pout of the lips and the upward curve of the fine eyebrows created a truly disarming look of disapproval. “And you mustn’t be rude. I was aware - and you confirmed this yourself - that you _enjoyed_ Rubinst-”

“Then tell me what Wotton meant by his message.” Alan composed his anger with a thin-lipped grimace, glowering into Gray’s face. “He called me blind. Am I?- to what? You are planning something for me, no doubt, something devious.” A brief pause, and then, as if struck by the realisation, an incredulous and resentful admiration spread across his face: “Is that why you have taken such an unnatural interest in me? I should have known! Your pretense of friendship was entirely suspicious, and what’s more, cowardly! -though I commend you for your bluff. It must have taken great skill, and I like to think of myself as a man difficult to deceive.

“You have played the innocent, Gray, and you have played it well, but this-” His calm simmered into place, leaving his face cold and grave, “-is your last chance. I should be damned if I am to serve as your toy.”

“Oh, _Alan_ ,” and there was the glimmer of tears in the youth’s blue eyes. Gray bit a knuckle, distress in his face. Alan was not fooled, and yet, he wondered at it all being nothing but a cleverly acted ploy. He moved, to turn away, and Gray moved with him - moved closer, until-

-until pressing up against him was Gray’s hot body and the soft flesh of his lips against Alan’s own.

He staggered backwards, stunned, until the hard surface of the wall greeted him, but Gray was kissing him, kissing him without end in sight, as if he had turned mad. And Alan, sensible as he was, was weakening against this assault as Rubinstein’s piece blazed onwards in the background.

“Gray-” he managed, clumsily patting at the blond’s side, initially intending to push the youth away but only changing to allow his hand to curve gently against Gray’s side. Gray kissed him again. Air escaped with a heavy exhale from Alan’s lips as Gray pulled away, the both of them flushed and flustered and Alan amazed.

“I-” he began.

“Hush!” Gray had clasped his hands to his mouth, as if it was not he who had initiated the kiss but had rather been victim to some terrible event out of his control. “Oh! I am a _fool_!”

“A fool!” he exclaimed in return, “How-” -yet Gray had taken off running, back towards the box they had left, his slim black shoes making only whispers against the red carpet. “Gray!” he shouted, lips tingling, “Dorian Gray!”

He made to start after the retreating figure as another voice called sharply from behind him: “Sir!” The attendant had taken him by the arm within moments; Rubinstein’s piece had finished, the orchestra was preparing themselves for the next. “I must insist you maintain the silence, sir, lest you disturb the other customers. It would be an unhappy thing for both of us should I need you to vacate the premises.”

Alan watched the attendant warily, casting another look along the corridor - Gray had vanished. A quick study of the man’s expression revealed nothing that suggested the attendant had been witness to what had just passed - his reputation, then, was safe for the moment.

Alan nodded, soberly.  “I understand. As it is, I was about to take my leave.”

“Very good, sir. I shall accompany you to the exit.”

And, permitting the attendant to lead him away, Alan heard the beginning notes of Rubinstein’s next piece spring into song.

 


	4. Pandora

Alan lingered, outside.

Though he cursed at himself in half-mutters and thoughts broiled within his head without closure, though he could determine no reason for _why_ , he could not pull himself away. A lonely streetlamp lit his chosen waiting spot and the barren street nearby; the concert extended well into the hours when many citizens of London chose to remain in their houses, with the exception of a few cold cab-drivers and their patient horses, hoping for fares. He was approached twice by passing Policemen, who satisfied themselves that he was not a loitering drunk when he explained calmly that he was expecting a friend, though the look in their eyes made it evident that they saw him as a slightly odd fellow. It was understandable - it seemed a queer sort of meeting place.

Another hour, two - it was difficult to gauge, and though he consulted his watch several times he seemed unable to read the time shown upon it, distracted by something more pressing than what he saw through his eyes. Finally he knew the show had ended: the first few audience members trickled out of the entrance, soon leading to a steady stream of crowded customers, chattering and laughing as they passed him. Fragments of their opinions upon Rubinstein and Rubinstein’s music reached him and were forgotten promptly as they went out of earshot, preoccupied as Alan was by searching the faces in the crowd. It was not until the main body of the audience had given way to the much sparser trickle of those rich enough to afford the luxurious boxes, and not til even that had considerably diminished that he heard and recognised the voices of Gray and Wotton.

“It went altogether too quickly, Harry, you-!”

“-made it a little easier for you, my dear boy, that is all.”

“I will be amazed if he has not dismissed my friendship by to-morrow, Harry. I cannot believe-” Gray came into view, Wotton alongside him, and stopped with a startled sound as he spotted Alan’s tired face. “Alan!”

“Wotton. Gray,” he acknowledged shortly, nodding curtly to the two of them in turn. And then, with some urgency in his voice- “Dorian, I must speak with you.”

Gray exchanged an unreadable look with Wotton, whom merely smiled in Alan’s direction. “Certainly. Where?”

“I would prefer we had a little privacy.” He did not look at Wotton.

Gray laughed, high and ringing, before turning to his companion, amusement in the upturned corners of his lips. “Good-night, Harry. I shall see you on Thursday.”

“Good-night, Dorian,” Wotton replied smoothly, then, tipping his hat to Alan, “And to you, Mr. Campbell. It was a pleasure.” Taking the silver-tipped cane from where it rested propped against his leg, Wotton turned upon his heel almost theatrically, strolling off into the low misty haze of the evening. Though the dandy did not turn back, Alan waited until Wotton had disappeared from view before addressing Gray once again.

“Dorian-”

“Alan.” There was an anxiety in the delicate upward curve of Gray’s fine eyebrows which startled him - and infuriated him. Grasping the youth by the shoulder he shook him.

“How can you look so bewildered?” he hissed, in low tones, “When it was you whom initiated-”

“Oh, Alan, Alan!” Gray’s hands were up in front of his face and he was tossing his blond curls back and forth in some semblance of distress. “Please don’t!” He stilled under Alan’s unrelenting grip, and looked wide-eyed into the chemist’s face. “How can you imagine that I intended for this to happen? That I was anything but a victim, as you were too?”

“A victim!”

“Yes, a victim!” A shuddering sigh broke free of the boy’s lips. “A victim of my own devilish emotions - oh! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do!”

“Dorian!” He shook him again, then, because Gray’s words echoed his own concerns so very closely, could not help but add, “No one saw us, Gray-” At this he glanced about them, but the street was still silent and dark, the light breeze creeping under his cuffs and touching his wrists with cold. “-No one saw us, I’m sure of it,” he resumed, the reassuring warmth in his tone more a comfort for himself than the frightened blond before him, “We might pretend this whole business never happened!”

A distressed cry filled the air; Gray was pressing the back of a hand to his forehead, woeful. “Pretend it never happened! Oh, Alan, must you be so _cruel_!” Before he could react, Gray had broken free of his grip, and was running from him, the slap of his new soles against the cobbled street loud against the echo of the night.

“Dorian!” he shouted, “Gray!- Damn and blast,” he hissed to himself as he watched the distant figure clamber into the back of a waiting hansom. The vehicle clattered away as he started forward, leaving him to hiss again in frustration. At least on a night like this there was no shortage of hopeful cabbies, and he was certain as to where Gray had gone.

* * *

Gray’s house stood amidst a cluster of similar mansions lining Grosvenor Square, a place so thoroughly unlike the regular haunts of Alan’s life that he felt a little disorientated as he stepped down and paid the cabby. As it drove away with the clatter of horseshoes on cobblestones, Alan peered up at the foreboding house and noticed a lighted window - it seemed he had been right about where Gray would end up. That, at least, was some small relief in the chaotic mess that his evening had become; it nearly being midnight, Alan was tired and desperate for the whole thing to be over. Now, it seemed, he would be able to seize some closure.

Alan rang the doorbell. After a moment’s muffled scuffling, a light came on through the crack at the bottom of the door, and it was pulled open to reveal Gray’s dishevelled valet.

“How can I help you, sir?” the man said politely, although he was dressed for bed and had evidently been awoken by the bell.

“I’ll get it, Victor-” Gray’s voice came shortly before the man himself appeared in view, still wearing his concert clothes and looking a fair sight more composed than the last Alan had seen him. He seemed to take Alan’s presence at his door in his stride, seeming not at all surprised to see him after their dramatic conversation some half-hour earlier; that, Alan decided upon reflection, was not so unusual - who else would be ringing at Gray’s door in the middle of the night after the events of this evening?

Gray’s valet managed a respectful nod in his employer’s direction before retreating back to wherever he had come. Alan stood there, uncertain, before Gray took him by the arm and pulled him in with an exasperated, “Come in, Alan.”

Alan collected his words as Gray closed the door behind him. Alan felt that if he ought to discuss the matter at all, he had best come out with it in an eloquent manner, so that they could talk about it like educated and sensible men. He cleared his throat, then began very seriously, “Gray, I want to settle this wretched business-”

“Shh!” Gray hissed, sharply cutting short his speech, “Upstairs, Alan. Not here.” He drew away, taking a gas-lamp that sat nearby on a table before ascending the grandiose stairs that marked the centrepiece of the receiving room. Upon entering Gray’s bedroom, the blond shut and locked the door behind them, drawing the key from the lock and placing it on his dressing table where it could be seen easily from all corners of the room. Alan well understood the necessity of such precautions; anything overheard of what they were about to speak could well be used to commit them both to gaol.

Now, however, they could get down to business.

“Gray,” he began again, frowning, “I want to know what this whole thing is about. What drove you to do such a bewildering thing?”

“Kissing you?” Gray whispered, almost as if he was unsure it had happened.

“Y- yes, if that’s the word,” and he supposed it was, after all. It made him uncomfortable to hear it spoken aloud.

“Let me be honest with you, Alan,” Gray murmured, looking up at him with sincerity in his eyes, “And this is not something I confess lightly. Not even my friends must know of this, except for Harry, whom I trust with my life.”

Wondering at how anyone could trust such a man as Wotton, Alan responded with cautious encouragement. “Go on, then.”

Gray took a shuddering breath, closing his eyes momentarily. His delicate hands fiddled with each other in the dim light. “I am an invert.”

Alan stilled. “You are?” Something in his mind was struggling to understand Gray’s words. “I mean, are you?”

There was a small look of confusion on Gray’s face at the question. “Well, yes.”

In all actuality, there was nothing else Alan had been expecting - or at least, the parts of Alan that knew what the Hell was going on to-night. Although the civilised part of him was amazed that an aristocrat known for his prowess with women could possibly be of such an unnatural nature, the other part of him - the logical part - knew this had had to have been the foregone conclusion all along. For that reason, Gray’s confession did not answer any of his questions at all. Alan realised what he really wanted to know was why Gray had chosen him as a trustee for his secret - why, indeed, Gray had been _attracted_ to him. Alan was not a remarkably attractive man. He had never courted a woman, had never had any desire to; similarly, women had never shown much interest in him. This had never bothered him; Alan was much more concerned with his work and his music and his chemistry. And now it seemed that, beyond all possibility, the first human being to show an interest in him was male.

So he said: “Why me, of all people? Why would you tell me this? Why would you kiss _me_?”

“Oh, Alan,” Gray whispered in return, “Is it not obvious? I recognised a kindred spirit in you straightaway.” He lay one of his hands upon Alan’s wrist, curling his cool fingers across Alan’s skin. “Alan, I kissed you because I knew you would not report me. As soon as I saw you, something alighted in me and told me that we are the same. You and I, we share this nature, we together are outsiders in this narrow society.

“Why would you come here to talk with me if you had been truly horrified by what took place to-night? You do not really know me; we are almost strangers, and so there is no loyalty within you that could have stopped you from exclaiming to the world that I am a sick creature. Every moral man in England would know that by God and Queen and Country it is better to lock an invert away than to leave him free. I am not a moral man, Alan. And you...”

Gray trailed off, his soft words dying into an expectant silence. The blond looked, hopeful and with earnest eyes, into the face of the stunned man before him.

Alan stood where he was, not quite seeing the scene before him, no inclination within him to speak. He did not even feel Gray’s gentle grip upon his wrist.

His mind was in turmoil. Something within him was trying to disprove everything Gray had said, and meeting, with inevitability, obstacle upon obstacle. He could not take this truth to heart, his entire body and soul rejected it, and yet there was sense in what Gray said. Sense? What sense was there left for him now? He had found the answer to his life’s question and it could never be boxed-up again. He staggered, inwardly; outwardly, he merely trembled. A small fraction of the reaction inside him.

“I-” he whispered.

Dorian kissed him. His soft lips were like comfort to Alan’s ragged soul; they awoke a fire in his chest and he wept as Dorian pushed him down upon the bed. The blond was kissing him madly, and Alan could feel nothing but thrill reverberating through every inch of his body, and he whispered: “Oh, God; oh, God,” against Dorian’s mouth. He was arching against Dorian’s warm body, and submitting utterly to the touch of hands across his neck, his chest, his hips. When they finally found their way between his legs, he cried out again and again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I stopped writing, originally. I'm considering continuing it. No actual explicit scenes of sex in the story so far, but that might change if I carry on writing it. I have a bit of a headcanon for Alan being a physical masochist, but it's not implied anywhere in the canon, so I'm not sure if it's too self-indulgent to write scenes of him getting hurt and absolutely loving it. Hmm.


End file.
